Items related to The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2003
The second volume in the annual series presents the finest literature from mainstream and alternative American periodicals, including both fiction and nonfiction by David Sedaris, ZZ Packer Nasdijj, Sherman Alexie, and Safran Foer, from publications ranging from The New Yorker to The Onion.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
DAVE EGGERS is the editor of McSweeney’s and a cofounder of 826 National, a network of nonprofit writing and tutoring centers for youth, located in seven cities across the United States. He is the author of four books, including What Is the What and How We Are Hungry.
Introduction
Dead Men Talking
For young readers and young writers, here are half a dozen commonplaces
concerning the act of reading, required or otherwise:
1. Dr. Johnson: "A man ought to read just as inclination leads him; for what
he reads as a task will do him little good."
In principle I agree with this — but I"m not quite this sort of reader.
Not confident enough to be this reader. "Inclination" is all very well if you are
born into taste or are in full possession of your own, but for those of us born
into families who were not quite sure what was required and what was not —
well, we fear our inclinations. For myself, I grew up believing in the Western
literary canon in a depressing, absolutist way: I placed all my faith in its
hierarchies, its innate quality and requiredness. The lower-middleclass,
aspirational reader is a very strong part of me, and the only books I wanted to
read as a teenager were those sanctified by my elders and betters. I was
certainly curious about the nonrequired reading of the day (back then, in
London, these were young, edgy men like Mr. Self and Mr. Kureishi and Mr.
Amis), but I didn"t dare read them until my required reading was done. I didn"t
realize then that required reading is never done.
My adult reading has continued along this fiercely traditional and
cautiously autodidactic path. To this day, if I am in a bookshop, browsing the
new fiction, and Robert Musil"s A Man Without Qualities happens to catch
my eye from across the room, I am shamed out of the store and must go
home to try to read that monster again before I can allow myself to read new
books by young people. Of course, the required nature of The Faerie Queene,
books 3 through 10 of Paradise Lost, or the Phaedrus exists mostly in my
head, a rigid idea planted by a very English education. An education of that
kind has many advantages for the aspiring writer, but in my case it also
played straight and true to the creeping conservatism in my soul.
Requiredness lingers over me. When deciding which book of a significant
author to read, I pick the one that appears on reading lists across the
country. When flicking through a poetry anthology, I begin with the verse that
got repeated in the .lm that took the Oscar. I met an Englishwoman recently,
also lower middle class, who believed she was required to read a book by
every single Nobel laureate, and when I asked her how that was working out
for her, she told me it was the most bloody miserable reading experience
she"d ever had in her life. Then she smiled and explained that she had no
intention of stopping. I am not that bad, but I"m pretty bad. It is only recently,
and in America, that the hold required reading has had on me has loosened a
little.
Tradition is a formative and immense part of a writer"s world, of the
creation of the individual talent — but experiment is essential. I have been
very slow to realize this. Reading this collection made me feel the literary
equivalent of "Zadie, honey, you need to get out more"; I began to see that
interesting things are going on, more and more things, and that I can"t keep
up with them, and that many of them cause revolt in the required-reading part
of my brain (I get very concerned by the disappearance of some of the more
expressive punctuations: the semicolon, the difference between long and
short dashes, the potential comic artfulness of the parentheses), and yet, I
so enjoyed myself that even if what I have read in this book is the clarion call
of my own obsolescence, it seems essential to defend experiment and
nonrequiredness from those who would attack it.
Thing is, the very young and very talented are not beholden. Nor
are the readers who would approach them. The great joy of nonrequiredness
seems to me that as a young reader, you have this opportunity to hold
opinions that are not weighed down by the opinions that came before. It is up
to you to measure the worth of the writers in your hand, for you are young
and they are young and actually I am still young and we are all in this thing
together. And I feel pride when I see that, collectively, we are not only writing
and reading weird stories, but also writing and reading serious journalistic
nonfiction and comics and satire and histories, and we are doing all these
things with the sort of rigor and attention that no one expected of us, and we
are managing this rigor and attention in a style entirely different from our
predecessors". We are so good, in fact, that we cannot hope to stay
nonrequired very long. We, too, will soon become required, which comes with
its own set of problems.
2. Logan Pearsall Smith: "People say that life is the thing, but I prefer
reading."
How important is the "touch of the real"? Should the young man
hankering after a literary life read through his massive dictionaries or stand
upon a pile of them to reach the high shelf where the whiskey is kept? When
I was in my teens, making a few stabs at writing, I had a very low opinion of
experience. It did not seem to me that trekking to the cobwebbed corners of
the world for six months and returning with a pair of ethnic trousers made
anybody a more interesting fellow than when they left. Weary, stale, .at, and
unprofitable were all the uses of the world to me — which meant, of course,
that I was not much good at anything and had no friends. No matter what
anybody says, it is a mixture of perversity and stomach-sadness that makes
a young person fashion a cocoon of other people"s words. If the sun was out,
I stayed in; if there was a barbecue, I was in the library; while the rest of my
generation embraced the sociality of Ecstasy, I was encased in marijuana,
the drug of the solitary. It was suggested to me by a teacher that I
might "write about what you know, where you live, people you see," and in
response I wrote straight pastiche: Agatha Christie stories, Wodehouse
vignettes, Plath poems — all signed by their putative authors and kept in a
drawer. I spent my last free summer before college reading, among other
things, Journal of the Plague Year, Middlemarch, and the Old Testament. By
the time I arrived at college I had been in no countries, had no jobs,
participated in no political groups, had no lovers, and put myself in no
physical danger apart from an entirely accidental incident whereupon I fell fifty
feet from my bedroom window while trying to reach for a cigarette I"d dropped
in the guttering. In short, I was perfectly equipped to go on to write the kind of
fiction I did write: saturated by other books; touched by the world, but only
very vicariously. Welcome to the house that books built: my large rooms
wallpapered with other people"s words, through which one moves like a
tourist through an English country manor — somewhat impressed, but
uncertain whether anyone really lives there.
These days, given the choice between a week in the Caribbean
and a week reading A High Wind in Jamaica, I would probably still choose
the book and the sofa. But this is no longer a proud rejection, only a stiffened
habit. To read many of the pieces in this collection is to discover the uses of
the world, of experience, is to be shown how life can indeed be the thing, if
only you let it. I am impressed by this strong, noble, journalistic trend in
American writing, to be found in this very book, dispassionately exercising
itself over Saddam"s daily existence, or what it is like to live in South Central
L.A. I had never met with this kind of journalism until I came to America. It
has since been explained to me that most Americans read In Cold Blood
when they are fifteen, but I read it only two years ago, and not since Journal
of the Plague Year had I felt writing like that, and I mean felt it; writing that
gets up inside you, physically, giving you back the meaning of the word
unnerve. When you read too many novels, and then when you happen to
write them as well, you develop a sort of hypersensitivity to the self-
consciously "literary" as it manifests itself in fictional prose — it"s a totally
irrational, violent, and self-defeating sensitivity, and you know that, but still,
every time you see it, including in your own stuff, it makes you want to
scream. So to read what purports to be the truth — no matter how
decorated — feels to me like the palate-cleansing green tea that follows a
busy meal of monosodium glutamate.
The point is, my mind has changed about experience. I thought I
didn"t like memoirs, I thought I didn"t like travelogues, I thought I didn"t like
autobiographical books written by people under forty, but the past three years
of American writing have proved me wrong on all these counts. It is never too
late to change your mind about what you require. I see now that I am
required, and more than this, that I require, I need, to do something else with
my life than solely to read fiction and write it. I"ve got to get out there, abroad
and up close; I"ve got to smell things, eat them, throw them across a park,
sail them, dig them up, and see how long I can survive without them, or with
them.
As I write this, I am at a college with a novelist younger than me, and at a
recent lunch he put before me a hypothetical choice. Should a young man
stay the university distance for those four long years? Or should he drop out
and seek the experiences that are owed him? Which decision makes the
better writer? I argued the case for college, listing the writers on my side of
the Atlantic who stayed the course even while indulging in such various
activities as storing a bear in their room (Byron), ditching class to walk up
hills (Wordsworth), spending most of the time having suits made (Wilde),
stopping soccer balls at the goal"s mouth (Nabokov), or scribbling
obscenities in library books (Larkin). He naturally countered with all the
Americans who quit while they were ahead, or earlier (Mark Twain, William
Faulkner, Herman Melville, Walt Whitman, Jack London). He won the
argument because I had no experience with which to argue against it. By
definition Emersonian experience cannot be rejected without any experience
of it; it must be passed through and felt and only then compared to the
Miltonic experience: the dark room, a book, the smell of the lamp. I"m not
qualified to make the judgment, no, not yet — although I intend to be. I want
to travel properly next year. See some stuff.(diplomate, American Board
of Psychiatry and Neurology), who comes down firmly on the side of life:
Ultimately, what distinguishes the aforementioned individuals from the rest of
us is their passion for learning that transcends the structured environment of
the classroom. Instead of limiting their education to formal schooling, they
were curious about the world around them. With their fearless spirit of
exploration and their desire to experiment, these individuals discovered their
true passions and strengths, which they built upon to achieve success later
in life.
Imagine what a loss for the world it would have been if Walt
Disney had confined his learning to the requirements of his school"s
curriculum, and followed only the guidance of his teachers, rather than his
own internal motivation. His extraordinary animated features may have never
been created.
Imagine.
3. Laurence Sterne: "Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine; they are
the life, the soul of reading."
Yet, somehow, digressions have gone and got themselves a bad
name. The name might be indulgence. Digressions, supposedly, are for
writers who cannot control themselves, or else writers who seek to waste the
hard-earned time of the no-bullshit reader who has little patience for frippery.
The attitude: Writer, do not take me down this strange alley when I mean to
get from A to B, and don"t think that, just because I am from the Midwest or
Surrey, I"ll allow some New York or London wiseass to take me on an
unnecessary, circuitous journey and charge me too much while they"re at it.
And less of the chat — I don"t need a tour guide — Christ, I know this city
like the back of my hand. And please note that I"m man enough to use
honest language like "back of my hand," which is more than you can say for
these namby-pamby writers.
And then on the other side of the street, you"ve got your folks who
care only for digression. They don"t feel they"ve got their money"s worth
unless, while trying to get from Williamsburg to the Upper East Side, the
writer takes them by way of Nairobi, a grandparent"s first romance, the
Guadeloupean independence struggle of the 1970s, through the stink of the
Moscow sewer system and up through the bud-mouth of an unborn child. But
these folks are few.
Among the majority, digression has fallen from favor, along with
many of the great digressors, of which Sterne was the mighty progenitor.
Maybe "digression" has been confused and twinned with "complexity," but if
that"s so, then someone should explain that a path off a main road needn"t be
busy or populated — it can be plain, flat, straight, almost silent. But for all
digressions to be of this kind would seem to me a shame. To be so strict
about it, I mean. I do like a sunny, busy lane. And I like a memory-saturated,
melancholic one as well. I think of W. G. Sebald"s The Emigrants, that ode to
digression, structured like a labyrinth of lanes leading away from a historical
monument that is itself too painful to be looked at directly. This might be a
model. Things are so painful again just now.
Maybe I worry too much about these things, but like a silent
minority of transvestite schoolboys and wannabe drag kings, I imagine a
whole generation of not-yet-here writers who feel great shame when
contemplating their closet full of adjectival phrases, cone-shaped flashbacks,
multiple voices, scraps of many media, syzygy, footnotes, pantoums. I worry
that they will never wear them out for fear of looking the fool.
Look: Wear your black some days, and wear your purple others.
There is no other rule besides pulling it off. If you can pull off, for example,
blocks of red and yellow in horizontal stripes, feathers, tassels, lace,
toweling, or all-over suede, then for God"s sake, girl, wear it.
Here is a beautiful digression from a master digressor. He is
meant to be discussing his sixteen-year-old cousin, Yuri:
He was boiling with anger over Tolstoy"s dismissal of the art of war, and
burning with admiration for Prince Andrey Bolkonski — for he had just
discovered War and Peace which I had read for the first time when I was
eleven (in Berlin, on a Turkish sofa, in our somberly rococo Privatstrasse flat
giving on a dark, damp back garden with larches and gnomes that have
remained in that book, like an old postcard, forever).
4. James Joyce: "That ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia"
The ideal reader cannot sleep when holding the writer he was
meant to be with.
Sometimes you meet someone who is the ideal reader for a writer
they have not yet heard of. I met a boy from Tennessee at a college dinner
who wore badly chipped black nail polish and a lip ring, had perfect manners,
and ended any disagreement or confusion with the sentenc...
Dead Men Talking
For young readers and young writers, here are half a dozen commonplaces
concerning the act of reading, required or otherwise:
1. Dr. Johnson: "A man ought to read just as inclination leads him; for what
he reads as a task will do him little good."
In principle I agree with this — but I"m not quite this sort of reader.
Not confident enough to be this reader. "Inclination" is all very well if you are
born into taste or are in full possession of your own, but for those of us born
into families who were not quite sure what was required and what was not —
well, we fear our inclinations. For myself, I grew up believing in the Western
literary canon in a depressing, absolutist way: I placed all my faith in its
hierarchies, its innate quality and requiredness. The lower-middleclass,
aspirational reader is a very strong part of me, and the only books I wanted to
read as a teenager were those sanctified by my elders and betters. I was
certainly curious about the nonrequired reading of the day (back then, in
London, these were young, edgy men like Mr. Self and Mr. Kureishi and Mr.
Amis), but I didn"t dare read them until my required reading was done. I didn"t
realize then that required reading is never done.
My adult reading has continued along this fiercely traditional and
cautiously autodidactic path. To this day, if I am in a bookshop, browsing the
new fiction, and Robert Musil"s A Man Without Qualities happens to catch
my eye from across the room, I am shamed out of the store and must go
home to try to read that monster again before I can allow myself to read new
books by young people. Of course, the required nature of The Faerie Queene,
books 3 through 10 of Paradise Lost, or the Phaedrus exists mostly in my
head, a rigid idea planted by a very English education. An education of that
kind has many advantages for the aspiring writer, but in my case it also
played straight and true to the creeping conservatism in my soul.
Requiredness lingers over me. When deciding which book of a significant
author to read, I pick the one that appears on reading lists across the
country. When flicking through a poetry anthology, I begin with the verse that
got repeated in the .lm that took the Oscar. I met an Englishwoman recently,
also lower middle class, who believed she was required to read a book by
every single Nobel laureate, and when I asked her how that was working out
for her, she told me it was the most bloody miserable reading experience
she"d ever had in her life. Then she smiled and explained that she had no
intention of stopping. I am not that bad, but I"m pretty bad. It is only recently,
and in America, that the hold required reading has had on me has loosened a
little.
Tradition is a formative and immense part of a writer"s world, of the
creation of the individual talent — but experiment is essential. I have been
very slow to realize this. Reading this collection made me feel the literary
equivalent of "Zadie, honey, you need to get out more"; I began to see that
interesting things are going on, more and more things, and that I can"t keep
up with them, and that many of them cause revolt in the required-reading part
of my brain (I get very concerned by the disappearance of some of the more
expressive punctuations: the semicolon, the difference between long and
short dashes, the potential comic artfulness of the parentheses), and yet, I
so enjoyed myself that even if what I have read in this book is the clarion call
of my own obsolescence, it seems essential to defend experiment and
nonrequiredness from those who would attack it.
Thing is, the very young and very talented are not beholden. Nor
are the readers who would approach them. The great joy of nonrequiredness
seems to me that as a young reader, you have this opportunity to hold
opinions that are not weighed down by the opinions that came before. It is up
to you to measure the worth of the writers in your hand, for you are young
and they are young and actually I am still young and we are all in this thing
together. And I feel pride when I see that, collectively, we are not only writing
and reading weird stories, but also writing and reading serious journalistic
nonfiction and comics and satire and histories, and we are doing all these
things with the sort of rigor and attention that no one expected of us, and we
are managing this rigor and attention in a style entirely different from our
predecessors". We are so good, in fact, that we cannot hope to stay
nonrequired very long. We, too, will soon become required, which comes with
its own set of problems.
2. Logan Pearsall Smith: "People say that life is the thing, but I prefer
reading."
How important is the "touch of the real"? Should the young man
hankering after a literary life read through his massive dictionaries or stand
upon a pile of them to reach the high shelf where the whiskey is kept? When
I was in my teens, making a few stabs at writing, I had a very low opinion of
experience. It did not seem to me that trekking to the cobwebbed corners of
the world for six months and returning with a pair of ethnic trousers made
anybody a more interesting fellow than when they left. Weary, stale, .at, and
unprofitable were all the uses of the world to me — which meant, of course,
that I was not much good at anything and had no friends. No matter what
anybody says, it is a mixture of perversity and stomach-sadness that makes
a young person fashion a cocoon of other people"s words. If the sun was out,
I stayed in; if there was a barbecue, I was in the library; while the rest of my
generation embraced the sociality of Ecstasy, I was encased in marijuana,
the drug of the solitary. It was suggested to me by a teacher that I
might "write about what you know, where you live, people you see," and in
response I wrote straight pastiche: Agatha Christie stories, Wodehouse
vignettes, Plath poems — all signed by their putative authors and kept in a
drawer. I spent my last free summer before college reading, among other
things, Journal of the Plague Year, Middlemarch, and the Old Testament. By
the time I arrived at college I had been in no countries, had no jobs,
participated in no political groups, had no lovers, and put myself in no
physical danger apart from an entirely accidental incident whereupon I fell fifty
feet from my bedroom window while trying to reach for a cigarette I"d dropped
in the guttering. In short, I was perfectly equipped to go on to write the kind of
fiction I did write: saturated by other books; touched by the world, but only
very vicariously. Welcome to the house that books built: my large rooms
wallpapered with other people"s words, through which one moves like a
tourist through an English country manor — somewhat impressed, but
uncertain whether anyone really lives there.
These days, given the choice between a week in the Caribbean
and a week reading A High Wind in Jamaica, I would probably still choose
the book and the sofa. But this is no longer a proud rejection, only a stiffened
habit. To read many of the pieces in this collection is to discover the uses of
the world, of experience, is to be shown how life can indeed be the thing, if
only you let it. I am impressed by this strong, noble, journalistic trend in
American writing, to be found in this very book, dispassionately exercising
itself over Saddam"s daily existence, or what it is like to live in South Central
L.A. I had never met with this kind of journalism until I came to America. It
has since been explained to me that most Americans read In Cold Blood
when they are fifteen, but I read it only two years ago, and not since Journal
of the Plague Year had I felt writing like that, and I mean felt it; writing that
gets up inside you, physically, giving you back the meaning of the word
unnerve. When you read too many novels, and then when you happen to
write them as well, you develop a sort of hypersensitivity to the self-
consciously "literary" as it manifests itself in fictional prose — it"s a totally
irrational, violent, and self-defeating sensitivity, and you know that, but still,
every time you see it, including in your own stuff, it makes you want to
scream. So to read what purports to be the truth — no matter how
decorated — feels to me like the palate-cleansing green tea that follows a
busy meal of monosodium glutamate.
The point is, my mind has changed about experience. I thought I
didn"t like memoirs, I thought I didn"t like travelogues, I thought I didn"t like
autobiographical books written by people under forty, but the past three years
of American writing have proved me wrong on all these counts. It is never too
late to change your mind about what you require. I see now that I am
required, and more than this, that I require, I need, to do something else with
my life than solely to read fiction and write it. I"ve got to get out there, abroad
and up close; I"ve got to smell things, eat them, throw them across a park,
sail them, dig them up, and see how long I can survive without them, or with
them.
As I write this, I am at a college with a novelist younger than me, and at a
recent lunch he put before me a hypothetical choice. Should a young man
stay the university distance for those four long years? Or should he drop out
and seek the experiences that are owed him? Which decision makes the
better writer? I argued the case for college, listing the writers on my side of
the Atlantic who stayed the course even while indulging in such various
activities as storing a bear in their room (Byron), ditching class to walk up
hills (Wordsworth), spending most of the time having suits made (Wilde),
stopping soccer balls at the goal"s mouth (Nabokov), or scribbling
obscenities in library books (Larkin). He naturally countered with all the
Americans who quit while they were ahead, or earlier (Mark Twain, William
Faulkner, Herman Melville, Walt Whitman, Jack London). He won the
argument because I had no experience with which to argue against it. By
definition Emersonian experience cannot be rejected without any experience
of it; it must be passed through and felt and only then compared to the
Miltonic experience: the dark room, a book, the smell of the lamp. I"m not
qualified to make the judgment, no, not yet — although I intend to be. I want
to travel properly next year. See some stuff.(diplomate, American Board
of Psychiatry and Neurology), who comes down firmly on the side of life:
Ultimately, what distinguishes the aforementioned individuals from the rest of
us is their passion for learning that transcends the structured environment of
the classroom. Instead of limiting their education to formal schooling, they
were curious about the world around them. With their fearless spirit of
exploration and their desire to experiment, these individuals discovered their
true passions and strengths, which they built upon to achieve success later
in life.
Imagine what a loss for the world it would have been if Walt
Disney had confined his learning to the requirements of his school"s
curriculum, and followed only the guidance of his teachers, rather than his
own internal motivation. His extraordinary animated features may have never
been created.
Imagine.
3. Laurence Sterne: "Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine; they are
the life, the soul of reading."
Yet, somehow, digressions have gone and got themselves a bad
name. The name might be indulgence. Digressions, supposedly, are for
writers who cannot control themselves, or else writers who seek to waste the
hard-earned time of the no-bullshit reader who has little patience for frippery.
The attitude: Writer, do not take me down this strange alley when I mean to
get from A to B, and don"t think that, just because I am from the Midwest or
Surrey, I"ll allow some New York or London wiseass to take me on an
unnecessary, circuitous journey and charge me too much while they"re at it.
And less of the chat — I don"t need a tour guide — Christ, I know this city
like the back of my hand. And please note that I"m man enough to use
honest language like "back of my hand," which is more than you can say for
these namby-pamby writers.
And then on the other side of the street, you"ve got your folks who
care only for digression. They don"t feel they"ve got their money"s worth
unless, while trying to get from Williamsburg to the Upper East Side, the
writer takes them by way of Nairobi, a grandparent"s first romance, the
Guadeloupean independence struggle of the 1970s, through the stink of the
Moscow sewer system and up through the bud-mouth of an unborn child. But
these folks are few.
Among the majority, digression has fallen from favor, along with
many of the great digressors, of which Sterne was the mighty progenitor.
Maybe "digression" has been confused and twinned with "complexity," but if
that"s so, then someone should explain that a path off a main road needn"t be
busy or populated — it can be plain, flat, straight, almost silent. But for all
digressions to be of this kind would seem to me a shame. To be so strict
about it, I mean. I do like a sunny, busy lane. And I like a memory-saturated,
melancholic one as well. I think of W. G. Sebald"s The Emigrants, that ode to
digression, structured like a labyrinth of lanes leading away from a historical
monument that is itself too painful to be looked at directly. This might be a
model. Things are so painful again just now.
Maybe I worry too much about these things, but like a silent
minority of transvestite schoolboys and wannabe drag kings, I imagine a
whole generation of not-yet-here writers who feel great shame when
contemplating their closet full of adjectival phrases, cone-shaped flashbacks,
multiple voices, scraps of many media, syzygy, footnotes, pantoums. I worry
that they will never wear them out for fear of looking the fool.
Look: Wear your black some days, and wear your purple others.
There is no other rule besides pulling it off. If you can pull off, for example,
blocks of red and yellow in horizontal stripes, feathers, tassels, lace,
toweling, or all-over suede, then for God"s sake, girl, wear it.
Here is a beautiful digression from a master digressor. He is
meant to be discussing his sixteen-year-old cousin, Yuri:
He was boiling with anger over Tolstoy"s dismissal of the art of war, and
burning with admiration for Prince Andrey Bolkonski — for he had just
discovered War and Peace which I had read for the first time when I was
eleven (in Berlin, on a Turkish sofa, in our somberly rococo Privatstrasse flat
giving on a dark, damp back garden with larches and gnomes that have
remained in that book, like an old postcard, forever).
4. James Joyce: "That ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia"
The ideal reader cannot sleep when holding the writer he was
meant to be with.
Sometimes you meet someone who is the ideal reader for a writer
they have not yet heard of. I met a boy from Tennessee at a college dinner
who wore badly chipped black nail polish and a lip ring, had perfect manners,
and ended any disagreement or confusion with the sentenc...
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherHoughton Mifflin Harcourt
- Publication date2003
- ISBN 10 0618246959
- ISBN 13 9780618246953
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number1
- Number of pages288
- EditorEggers Dave
- Rating
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The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2003
Published by
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
(2003)
ISBN 10: 0618246959
ISBN 13: 9780618246953
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The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2003
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THE BEST AMERICAN NONREQUIRED RE
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The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2003
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(2003)
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